Dob. Umph!

Sir R. Umph! What do you mean by umph? Open the rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question?

Dob. Because, if I contradicted you there, I should tell a lie; and whenever I agree with you, you are sure to fall out. Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long endeavoring to beat a few brains into your pate, that all your hair has tumbled off it, before I can carry my point.

Dob. What then? Our parson says, my head is an emblem of both our honors.

Sir R. Ay, because honors, like your head, are apt to be empty.

Dob. No; but if a servant has grown bald under his master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on t'other.

Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest a-Pshaw! the parson means to palaver us!-But, to return to my position-I tell you, I don't like your flat contradiction. Dob. Yes you do.

Sir R. I tell you, I don't. I only love to hear men's arguments, and I hate their flummery.

Dob. What do you call flummery?

Sir R. Flattery, you blockhead !—a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones.

Dob. I never serve it up to you.

Sir R. No, indeed! you give me a dish of a different description.

Dob. Umph! What is it?

Sir R. Sour krout, you old crab.

Dob.

a year.

I have held you a stout tug at argument this many

Sir R. And yet I never could teach you a syllogism. Now, mind: when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him. Now, I am rich, and hate flattery; ergo, when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I

hate him.

Dob.

Sir R.

Dob.
Sir R.

That's wrong.

Very well-negatur. Now, prove it.
Put the case so, then: I am a poor man—

You lie, you dog! You know you shall never

want while I have a shilling.

Dob. Bless you!

Sir R. Pshaw! Proceed.

Dob. Well, then, I am a poor--I must be a poor man now, or I shall never get on.

Sir R. Well, get on-be a poor man !

Dob. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and convince then you call yourself a blockhead, and I Now, that's no flattery.

you, you are wrong:

am of your opinion. Sir R. Why, no;

but when a man's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to conversation; so I hate him for that. But where's my nephew, Frederick ?

Dob.

Been out these two hours.

Sir R. An undutiful cub! Only arrived from Russia last night; and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he's scampering over the fields like a Calmuc Tartar.

Dob. He's a fine fellow.

Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Don't he's a little like me, Humphrey?

Dob. Bless you, not a bit: you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on.

Sir R. Now, that's impudent! But there's no flattery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit-Humphrey, you remember my brother Job?

Dob. Yes; you drove him to Russia, five and twenty years

ago.

Sir R. (Angrily.) I drove him!

Dob. Yes, you did: you would never let him be at peace way of argument.

in the

Sir R. At peace! Bless you, he would never go to war.

Dob. He had the merit to be calm.

Sir R. So has a duck-pond. He was a bit of still life; a chip; weak water-gruel; a tame rabbit, boiled to rags, without sauce or salt. He received men's arguments with his mouth open, like a poor's-box gaping for half-pence; and, good or bad, he swallowed them all, without any resistance. We couldn't disagree, and so we parted.

Dob. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life.

Sir R. A quiet life! Why, he married the moment he got there; tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian merchant; and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, pot-ashes, tallow, linen and leather. And what's the conse

quence? Thirteen months ago, he broke. Poor Job! now he's in distress, I mustn't neglect his son.

(Frederick is heard singing without.

Dob. Here comes his son-that's Mr. Frederick.

Fre.

Enter FREDERICK.

Ah! my dear uncle, good morning! Your park is nothing but beauty.

Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay in doors till I got up.

Fre. Eh? Egad, so you did. I had as entirely forgotten

it as

Sir R. And, pray, what made you forget it?

Fre.

The sun.

Sir R. The sun?-He's mad! You mean the

believe.

Fre.

moon, I

Oh, my dear sir! you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning upon a young fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright-trees budding birds singing-the park was gay-so, egad! I took a hop, step, and a jump, out of your old balcony; made your deer fly before me like the wind; and chased them all round the park to get an appetite, while you were snoring in bed, uncle!

Sir R. Ah! so the effect of an English sun upon a young Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony, and worry my deer?

110

Fre. I confess it had that influence upon me.

Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy.

Fre. Sir, I hate fat legacies.

Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens of kindness, at least.

Fre. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are the pos thumous despatches Affection sends to Gratitude, to inform us we have lost a generous friend.

Sir R. (Aside.) How charmingly the dog argues!

Fre. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morning. I will obey you better in future; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman.

Sir R. Now, who had the familiar impudence to tell you that?

Fre.

Old Rusty, there.

Sir R. Why, Humphrey, you didn't?

Dob. Yes, but I did, though.

Fre. Yes, he did; and, on that score, I shall be anxious to show you obedience ;-for 'tis as meritorious to attempt sharing in a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities at the pocket.

Sir R. (Embracing him.) Jump out of every window I have in my house! hunt my deer into high fevers, my fine fellow! Ay, sir, this is spunk and plain speaking. Give me a man who is always plumping his dissent to my doctrine

smack in my teeth!

Fre. I disagree with you there, uncle.

Dob. So do I.

Fre. You, you forward puppy! If you were not so old, I'd knock you down.

Sir R. I'll knock you down, if you do! I won't have my servants thumped into dumb flattery.

Dob. Come, you're ruffled. Let's go to the business of the morning.

Sir R. Hang the business of the morning! Don't you see
I hate the business of the

we're engaged in discussion?

morning!

Dob. No you don't.

Sir R. And why not?

Dob. Because 'tis charity.

If

Sir R. Psha!-Well, we musn't neglect business. there be any distresses in the parish, read the morning list, Humphrey.

Dob. (Taking out a paper, and looking over it.) Jonathan Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put into prison.

Sir R. Why, 'twas but last week, Gripe, the attorney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds.

Dob. And charged a hundred and ten for his trouble. So seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan in gaol for the remainder.

Sir R. A harpy!—I must relieve the
Fre. And I must kick his attorney.

poor fellow's distress.

Dob. (Looking at the list.) The curate's horse is dead.
Sir R. Psha! there's no distress in that.

Dob. Yes there is, to a man who must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year.

Sir R. Why won't Punmock, the vicar, give him another nag? Dob. Because 'tis cheaper to get another curate ready mounted.

Sir R. What's the name of the black pad I purchased last Tuesday at Tunbridge?

Dob. Beelzebub.

Sir R. Send Beelzebub to the curate, and tell him to work him as long as he lives.

1

Fre. And if you have a tumble-down nag, send him to the vicar, to give him a chance of breaking his neck.

Sir R. What else?

Dob. Somewhat out of the common. There's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer and a widower, come to lodge at Farmer Harrowby's, in the village. He's plaguy poor